


Bloodbag

by BalefireFlatlands



Series: The Balefire [3]
Category: Mad Max (Video Game 2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2019-09-14 12:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16912788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BalefireFlatlands/pseuds/BalefireFlatlands
Summary: Jeet gets a delivery from Max.





	Bloodbag

Max dropped the man he was carrying over his shoulders onto the hard concrete floor of Jeet’s stronghold. There was a flurry of screaming expletives and the man tried to bite his ankles before he was kicked away. He rolled onto his back, waist and legs twisted around in a way that looked incredibly painful. Max ignored him, jogging up the metal stairs to where Jeet sat, looking as pissed off as usual. He tossed a duffle bag at his feet and pointed at the War Boy who was still sprawled out on the floor, “Bloodbag.”

Jeet frowned, leaning forward and starting to root through the bag. His dour expression lifted as he saw the supplies Max had managed to bring him. Still, he wasn’t all happy, “Another maw that needs feeding. Probably gonna run off at the first sign of a war party.”

“He’s not running anywhere.” Max headed back down the stairs to where his Interceptor was parked, revving the engine and leaving without another word. Anxious to get out of there before Jeet asked him to do something else. When had he become everyone’s errand boy?

Jeet rubbed his head before stalking down the stairs to see the new prisoner, aware of his other prisoner’s eyes on him. Blas Cap was standing at the railing in front of the armory, watching. A small crowd had gathered around the War Boy who was up on his hands, legs still awkwardly twisted. Growling as he re-positioned himself on his palms he snarled insults, screeching nonsense at the crowd that pressed closer. He tried to make a swipe at one of them, losing his balance and falling heavily.

Jeet squatted near him, out of arms reach and watched him for a minute. The War Boy’s shoulders were heaving, and he was bloody, holes all throughout his chest from where he’d been hooked up to blood lines in the Organic’s shop. Jeet pulled an arrow out from the quiver on his back and jabbed it into one of the prisoner’s legs. “These don’t work no more do they?”

The War Boy was silent for the first time since Max had dropped him there, glaring out from under smeared war paint. But the fact he hadn’t reacted to an arrow that was now embedded in his leg spoke for itself. Jeet’s stronghold didn’t have an Organic Mechanic, they didn’t have much use for a bloodbag. No one was that injured right now. Was it worth it to feed him and keep him around in case they needed him?

Pulling the arrow out he wiped the blood off on the War Boy’s pants, twitching out of the way as he tried to hit him. “You have any other skills except bleeding?”

“My blood is legend! LEGEND! He who’s shadow walks on it’s own, fueled by me! I walk on. In him. Death comes to the plains of silence.” He was panting at the end of that, propped up on one elbow. He might have thought his blood was legendary, but right now he didn’t have enough of it to sustain himself during his crazed tirades.

“That sounds like a no then.” What to do with him. He’d normally make those that were useless take the long walk into the desert. Send them off to wander. But if he dumped this War Boy outside he’d just lay in the sand yelling at them til he slowly starved to death. With a sudden lunge the War Boy launched himself at one of the residents of the stronghold, pulling his non-functional lower half along behind him as he managed to squirm forward on his hands. Jeet sprung to his feet, kicking him right in one of those bloody holes on his chest. The prisoner howled in pain, but tried to grab at Jeet’s leg and knock him off his feet. Jeet scurried back, almost cracking a smile, “Tenacious thing. I’ll give you that. So here’s what I’m gonna do. Give you a week, make yourself useful other than gushing blood, and we’ll see about keeping you. Otherwise I’m hanging you off the tower for target practice. You have a name?”

The War Boy was silent for a while, glaring at Jeet. It wasn’t obvious if he was considering Jeet’s words, that he was willing to feed him if he was useful, or if he’d finally gotten lightheaded enough from bloodloss to not be able to scream abuse anymore. “Scab.”

Jeet nodded to two of his legion who knelt down to pick the man up. Scab twitched and tried to pull away, but he was finally succumbing to his injuries and was too weak to do much else than hang between them and glare. Leading him up to the second level of the stronghold he gestured for them to drop him in an empty alcove in one of the walls near the armory. Better for him to be up here, even if he did manage to drag himself away, he wouldn’t be able to get down the stairs.

Approaching Blas who was still standing nearby watching, he inclined his head to the prisoner on the floor, “Think you can jaw with him? Make him be less crazy?” It was a longshot at best, War Boys were stupid, they were crazy, they were single-minded fanatics. And Blas Cap was none of those things, he was probably the most easy going person Jeet had ever met in his life.

Blas shrugged, “I can try. But he’s not gonna like me.”

“See what you can do.” Jeet pushed past him, heading back to his chair.

Sighing Blas went and knelt next to him, conscious of the glare he was getting from those beady eyes deep set under black war paint. He reached out and tightly gripped the fabric of the leg of Scab’s pants, untangling the War Boy’s legs so that he looked more comfortable and less twisted up. His lower half weighed almost nothing, muscles completely atrophied from disuse.

“Don’t touch me Bullet Boy.” He spit that name out, as if it was some sort of insult. Blas didn’t react, settling him against the wall, noticing for the first time that he was shaking.

“Are you cold or are you hurt?” This was a War Boy, he wasn’t trembling like that because he was scared.

Scab hadn’t noticed the shivering and he held out a shaky hand in front of him to see for himself. Sighing he pressed back against the wall, wrapping his arms around himself. “Cold.”

Blas nodded, getting to his feet and returning with a thin blanket, covering the War Boy, making sure his legs were well wrapped up. Then he retreated back to his powder cooker station, sitting on the ground and watching Scab out of the corner of his eye as he got back to work.

“You’re a traitor.”

Blas actually stopped working for a moment, glancing over at him. “I’m alive.”

They both fell silent after that. Scab eventually passing out after a long day of bleeding out. Blas ignored him, focused only on his work.

From his plush throne Jeet watched the both of them, thinking. He hadn’t come to any monumental conclusions. But he had two very damaged members of the Immortan’s cult. There had to be something he could do with that to benefit his stronghold.

And if not the stronghold. Maybe just himself.


End file.
